


Six Thousand Years (Give or Take Four Days)

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22124434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: They had swapped back on Sunday afternoon; by Monday night, Aziraphale was confused as to why Crowley hadn't left his side since. Even more troubling, Aziraphale found that he didn't want him to.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 135





	Six Thousand Years (Give or Take Four Days)

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite possibly the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written, and I've been working on it since August. I can only hope someone else enjoys reading it, but if not I will just sit in the corner eating my sheetcake all by myself.

**Sunday, around 7:00 P.M.**

The evening after the last day of the world, Crowley and Aziraphale sat at a conveniently available table at the Ritz and made no less than seventeen toasts. The first was the world’s, the second was theirs, and after that they quickly lost track. They went through two bottles of champagne and three bottles of red wine before the waiter all but insisted they leave. Crowley, drunk enough by this time to be agreeable, made the seventeenth and final toast to the waiter, and left his credit card behind on the table, saying “Take whatever you like, it was almost the end of the world yesterday!” and Aziraphale, drunk enough to be tickled absolutely pink, followed him out of the restaurant without even a scandalized look, giggling all the while.

They went, as they had always gone and would always go, back to Aziraphale’s for a nightcap. Or two. Or seven. Or twelve. The wonderful thing about being an angel and a demon, Aziraphale thought as they were making good headway on finishing a bottle of whiskey, was that they could get as wildly drunk as they liked without accidentally going overboard and making themselves miserable. Mind you, they could most definitely do this by _choice_ , as Crowley had done when he’d thought Aziraphale had been killed just two days before, but now was the time for celebration, and both were steadfastly remaining in that stage of drunkenness when one is far too pleased at the state of the world for their own good.

“Angel!” Crowley said, slurring the word so badly it was almost incoherent. He was lounging sideways on Aziraphale’s sofa in the back of the bookshop, feet dangling off the armrest.

Aziprahale, who was situated in his usual armchair and almost managing to stay upright, hiccuped in reply.

Crowley went on like a broken record: “Angel, Angel, Angel . . .”

Aziraphale swallowed another mouthful of whiskey. “Mmm,” he said, and then smiled, quite pleased with his assessment.

“Aziraphale!” said Crowley triumphantly, and indeed he should have been, because it almost sounded like a real word. “ ’Ziraphale . . .”

“Mmm. Yes, m’dear?” said Aziraphale, who was slowly getting the impression that Crowley was trying to get his attention.

“We . . . we did it, didn’ we?”

“Mhm, we did.”

“We didn’ get dis—discorpal—We didn’ get killed!”

“Not even”—another hiccup—“not even the least bit, darling.”

“We figured out th’ pear—the parfait—the proof—” Crowley waved his hand wildly as though banishing the word to a dark pit somewhere. “The destiny-thingy. With th’ witch. Nutter. Y’know.”

“Yes, Crowley.”

“We’re _alive_ , an’ we did it _together_ , Angel,” said Crowley, suddenly very keen on trying to tell Aziraphale something that he couldn’t articulate while he had more than seventeen toasts of alcohol in his system. He leaned forward and almost fell off the sofa. “I better . . . better sober up,” he said reluctantly.

“Oh, not _yet_ ,” said Aziraphale, pouting. “It’s too early to stop.”

“Angel, ’s past midnight.”

“Too early,” insisted Aziraphale. In some far-off, still-sober corner of his mind, he knew that the sooner Crowley sobered up, the sooner he would leave. And Aziraphale very much wanted Crowley to stay. Tonight, of all nights, Crowley ought to stay, he thought. He reached out his hand and made a grabbing motion at Crowley. “C’mere.”

Crowley, unwilling or perhaps unable to argue the point further, tipped himself off of the sofa and stumbled over to the armchair. He swayed over it for a moment, unsure of what to do. Aziraphale, who hadn’t really thought through his request but was willing to improvise, took hold of Crowley’s odd little necktie and pulled him into his lap, where Crowley floundered for a moment before managing to swing his legs sideways over Aziraphale’s. The arrangement should have been rather uncomfortable for them, but they were both too drunk to realize this.

“This is nice,” said Aziraphale.

“Very comf’rble,” agreed Crowley.

They remained like that, drinking and talking about absolutely nothing, until the sun began to rise over London a second miraculous time after it was supposed to have stopped doing so.

By this time, the two of them had mostly sobered up naturally, and Crowley had extracted himself from Aziraphale’s lap to gather the empty bottles and glasses (manually; it was far too early in the day for miracles). Aziraphale stretched his legs, which, despite every known law of physics and biology, still had feeling in them.

“So long as you’re up,” said Aziraphale, whose mouth tasted a bit like a fish who had died a particularly gruesome death, “be a dear and fetch me a glass of water, won’t you?”

Crowley gave him a thumbs-up, and wandered into the adjacent room where there was a small kitchenette for emergencies. Aziraphale smiled to himself as he watched him. Crowley would leave now, he knew, because it was morning and the world had just begun again, and there were surely plenty of things for the both of them to do by themselves with the time on Earth they now, miraculously, had. And that was perfectly all right, Aziraphale thought. Just wonderful. Absolutely tickety-boo.

“Crowley?”

“Mhmm?” came the slightly muffled reply from the kitchenette.

“There’s a little pâtisserie a few blocks down that just opened up a week ago, it’s supposed to be just lovely. I didn’t get a chance to try it before all that nasty business of Armageddon started. If it’s still there, would you like to join me for some breakfast?”

Crowley appeared in the doorway of the kitchenette, holding a glass of water aloft with thin, delicate fingers. “I wouldn’t say no to a croissant,” he said, reptilian eyes flashing in the morning light filtering through the lace curtains which once, long ago, had been white.

Aziraphale could only beam at him in thanks.

**Monday, around 9:30 A.M.**

The pâtisserie was, indeed, still there, and it was, indeed, lovely. Crowley got his croissant, which he consumed in two bites (“How on Earth can you taste it that way, Crowley?” “With my tongue, Angel, same as you.”), and Aziraphale spent the better part of the morning slowly working through three chocolate éclairs, four crêpes, a plate of vanilla madeleines, a fruit tart, two mille-feuilles, and three of his own croissants. Each time he finished one item, he’d quickly order another, telling Crowley that he wanted to sample at least one of everything. Though the food was delicious, and Aziraphale had always had a weakness for French pastries, deep down, he knew that it was really because as soon as breakfast was over, he and Crowley would go their separate ways, and for some reason Aziraphale still did not want to say goodbye just yet.

It was ridiculous, Aziraphale reasoned, as he chewed on a madeleine. Crowley wasn’t going anywhere, that was certain now. Really, the two of them were safer than they’d ever been. They used to see one another less than once a decade, sometimes, and it had never been a problem before.

Crowley, for his part, seemed perfectly content to watch Aziraphale eat and chatter on about this and that, just as he always had. And when Aziraphale reluctantly put away the very last nibble of crêpe, Crowley almost immediately said, “They’re doing half-price matinees at the movie theater by St James’s, what say we pop over and see what they’ve got on?”

They ended up seeing a newly-restored re-release of _The Music Man_ , which Aziraphale had seen several times before and very much enjoyed, but not as much as he enjoyed the way Crowley leaned slightly against his shoulder for the duration of the film, or how the cheap theater seats forced them to share an armrest. He was reminded fondly of his regular visits to La Scala in the 1980s, and all the delightful times he’d had there; but having Crowley here with him, Aziraphale thought, was much nicer.

After the film, it happened to be the perfect time for a late lunch at a nearby Thai restaurant that was as dingy as the food was delicious. And well, the day was so nice, it seemed a crime not to lay out a picnic blanket (miraculously produced from Crowley’s jacket) in St James’s Park and lounge beneath a tree to wait for sunset. So much the better if Crowley grew sleepy in the sun and had a light nap for an hour or two, his breath steady and soft against Aziraphale’s hand where it rested (by chance, Aziraphale would insist) just centimeters away.

Aziraphale woke Crowley up to watch the sunset, which was almost too picturesque; just the perfect amount of pinks and reds and yellows, with a soft tinge of blue at the edge encroaching upon the light as the world slowly darkened around them. “Looks like the sun’s as relieved to still be around as the rest of us,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale very much agreed. When the show was over, they gathered the blanket (no use wasting a miracle when you could reuse it later, after all) and followed the lamplit walkways until they came upon the duck pond. This time of evening, the ducks were nowhere to be seen, hidden away wherever ducks go at night, but they sat at a bench across the walkway all the same, watching the quiet water. There were, for once, no words between them; they were both quite pleasantly tired and could think of nothing to say. Indeed, nothing seemed necessary to say; the only thing that seemed necessary to either of them was the other’s presence.

How funny, thought Aziraphale, that Crowley had been in his life for such an incredibly long time, and yet only now, after they had escaped both an Apocalypse and their own destruction, did he appreciate the time they had together. Well. It wasn’t all that funny, really. No, Aziraphale thought, it wasn’t funny at all.

After night had well and truly fallen, Aziraphale stood and turned to face Crowley. “Tea at mine?” was all he said, but what he meant was _Don’t go yet._

Crowley nodded once. “I’ll give us a lift,” he said, meaning _Don’t worry, Angel._

The Bentley, which Crowley had most definitely left at the Ritz the night before, was sitting by the curb just outside the park. As they drove towards Soho, Stephen Sondheim’s classic _Love of My Life_ played quietly on the radio, mixing with the sounds of the engine and the traffic speeding by. Aziraphale couldn’t help but glance over at Crowley during the chorus, but behind his glasses, Crowley’s eyes remained firmly fixed on the road ahead.

There was no tea to be had when they returned to the bookshop. They sat together on Aziraphale’s plushest sofa and watched television on his old rabbit-eared set that should not have been able to receive cable, let alone the HBO-exclusive program they were watching. Without really meaning to, they ended up leaning against each other, sides pressed warmly together, as they watched the show and paid absolutely no attention to it. Crowley’s pinky finger rested against Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale’s curls lightly brushed Crowley’s cheek. It was new to them, this kind of closeness, and yet it felt familiar, in the way that a new house is familiar because you have decided to make your home there. Neither of them moved or said a word, until, four episodes into a show they barely understood the premise of, Crowley said quietly, “It’s late. I should be off soon.”

Aziraphale had never before been stabbed with an icicle, but he imagined it would feel something like this. He couldn’t help the shudder that went through his chest. “Why?” he said, too loudly, and winced.

Crowley drew back in order to look at him properly. He had removed his glasses, and his confusion was plain in his eyes. (Oh, how lovely those eyes were, thought Aziraphale.) “I just said, it’s late. What’s wrong, Angel?”

Aziraphale struggled to adopt a neutral expression. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong. It’s just—” His mind had gone utterly blank. There was absolutely no reason whatsoever for Crowley to stay overnight for the second day in a row. They’d had over twenty-four hours together; wasn’t that long enough? He tried again: “I—I—” But again, there were no excuses. With a slowly sinking heart, Aziraphale said, “I—suppose it is rather late. If you want to go, you should.”

Crowley squinted at him. Aziraphale wished he’d wear his glasses less often; it was so much easier to read him like this. After a moment, Crowley’s expression softened, and he settled back into his spot, leaning cozily against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Nah,” he said, “I’ll stay here.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, whose heart was now in his throat and no longer in danger of sinking. He felt rather buoyant himself. In a burst of confidence, he took Crowley’s hand where it rested between them. It was cold, and Aziraphale rubbed warmth into it with his fingers. “Good to have you, my dear,” he said. _Thank you._

“Don’t feel like driving,” Crowley said, but one by one, he laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s. _Anytime._

**Tuesday, around 10:00 A.M.**

Aziraphale did not sleep; he did not have to and he did not wish to. He regarded it as a colossal waste of time, and was quietly impressed that humans managed to get anything done when they spent a third of their lives lying prone and unconscious for no discernible reason other than what seemed to be a mistake of evolution. If sleeping was part of Her Plan, it was certainly a strange item on the list, and Aziraphale wanted no part in it.

However, if that night he happened to close his eyes for a few moments, concentrating on the feeling of Crowley’s body leaning against his and his slowly-warming hand in Aziraphale’s own, well, that could hardly be called _sleeping_. _Resting his eyes_ , maybe.

When Aziraphale came to awareness again and opened his _well-rested_ eyes, it was long past breakfast time, and Crowley (who _was_ sleeping) had rearranged himself on the sofa. More precisely, he had managed to crawl (or was it slither?) into Aziraphale’s lap during the night. His face was smushed between the armrest and Aziraphale’s left hip, and his arms were wound around Aziraphale’s middle in a tight embrace, a position he seemed perfectly content with.

Aziraphale was startled for a moment, letting out a small yelp, but Crowley didn’t stir. Once he recovered, he began to run a hand lightly through Crowley’s unbrushed hair, smiling fondly down at him. _How like a snake,_ he thought, and briefly wondered why so many humans (and angels, come to think of it) were so wary of the charming creatures. True, Crowley had been the first serpent Aziraphale had met (and the first serpent, period), so perhaps he was biased, but Aziraphale could confidently say he had never met a snake he didn’t like, demon or no.

He let Crowley sleep for a while longer, a bit put out that he couldn’t quite reach the Emily Dickinson collection sitting on the nearby end-table to help pass the time, but after all what was the virtue of patience for, if not this? (Most angels would balk at the holy virtue of “patience” being defined as carding your hand through the hair of the sleeping demon curled sweetly in your lap as you waited for him to wake up, but this did not deter Aziraphale in the slightest.)

When Crowley did wake up, uncovered golden eyes blinking blearily open, he too seemed surprised at his position in Aziraphale’s lap. He took it in stride, however: “Sorry, Angel, forgot you were there—you feel an awful lot like a throw pillow,” he said.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said primly, and gently nudged him off so they could start their day.

It might have been too late for breakfast, but brunch was not off the proverbial table just yet. Without really discussing it, they made their way towards central London and stopped at a lovely little breakfast nook that was positively covered in doilies, a decorative choice which Aziraphale found charming and Crowley found hilarious. As with every small breakfast place, their table was minuscule and could barely fit both of their plates at once, and at some point during their meal their hands wandered their way towards one another.

If anyone happened to pass by a certain tiny restaurant on a busy London street that late Tuesday morning, they would have seen two gentlemen, opposites in almost every way, very happily chatting and drinking mimosas and sharing a plate of French toast (though it would appear as though the white-haired gentleman had staked his claim on most of it), their hands firmly clasped together in the center of the table as though they never planned on using them again.

“So, what’s next?” Crowley said, once Aziraphale had cleaned his plate and told the waitress to send his greatest compliments to the chef. (He’d decided to bless the place as soon as he caught sight of the doilies, but the food had clinched it for him.)

“Hmm?” Aziraphale felt an odd swoop in his stomach. “What do you mean, next?”

“Well, I suppose we could sit here for another few hours, but the staff might get miffed. And I’ve got nothing else on for the day, so it’s up to you, Angel.”

“I—” He would have thought that surely Crowley would want to part ways by now; they had spent nearly three days together. “I—I’ve got nothing else on, either,” Aziraphale said, surprised by the words even as they came out of his mouth. “We could just . . . walk around, I suppose. Plenty of dear little shops in this part of the city. There’s bound to be bookshops. And I _have_ been looking for a new set of buttons . . . and I could do with a new bow-tie or two . . .”

Crowley peered at him over his glasses. His golden eyes flashed with the grin he wore. “Window shopping?”

“Window shopping,” said Aziraphale with sudden confidence, and called for the check before he could change his mind.

**Tuesday, at precisely 2:39 P.M.**

“Oh, Angel, no.”

“It won’t do any good, Crowley, I simply must have them and you can’t stop me.”

“ _Please_ , Angel, they’re ghastly. I’m telling you this because I care about you, and your reputation.”

“My _reputation_? Crowley, my dear, I’m not so ignorant as all that, I’m very much aware of my reputation back in Soho, and if anything, this will only enforce it.”

“You can’t even _wear_ them. Your ears aren’t pierced.”

“Aren’t they?”

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley squinted at Aziraphale, who was examining the wares of a somewhat kitschy jewelry store they’d wandered into. Specifically, he was examining the earrings. There wasn’t anything inherently upsetting about that, but the thing Crowley had a problem with was that Aziraphale was examining the _worst possible_ earrings he could have chosen. And now Aziraphale was turning his head so Crowley could see his ears more clearly, and yes, Satan bless it, there they were, two little pinpricks in the center of his earlobes. Crowley could have sworn up and down that they hadn’t been there an hour ago (he would have been correct; Aziraphale’s propensity for frivolous miracles had only increased since Heaven had gotten off his back), but they sure were there now. Crowley groaned, all out of arguments, and Aziraphale turned cheerily to the shopkeeper and asked to try on a particular pair of studded golden earrings, shaped conspicuously to look like two little curled-up snakes.

“Oh, Crowley, they’re darling,” Aziraphale said as they were handed to him, cooing over them as though they were living creatures. He held them up for Crowley to inspect, and Crowley had to admit, they were well-crafted. Loud, tacky, and completely not Aziraphale’s style, but well-crafted. You could see every divot in the snakes’ scales, and the spirals of their curled tails, and even the eyes and mouths on their tiny faces.

Aziraphale was already trying one on at a nearby mirror. “Do you think perhaps I should only leave one in?” he said excitedly. He turned his face this way and that, admiring his reflection. The earring flashed rather attractively when the light hit it just right. “That’s the fashion these days, isn’t it?”

“Three decades ago, maybe,” Crowley muttered, but he’d decided there was no dissuading Aziraphale at this point, and the only thing to do now was humor him. He went on at a normal volume, “You ought to wear both, if you’re going to buy both.”

As Aziraphale put the second stud in, he smiled at his reflection. Indeed, he did look objectively rather charming, if a bit anachronistic (but then again, is there any better way for an angel to look?). “Hmm. Well, it would certainly be economical,” said Aziraphale, who had never once in his six thousand years on Earth even considered worrying about money.

He bought them, of course, and wore them out of the store. Crowley pretended to think they were utterly ridiculous, and tried not to make it too obvious he was sneaking glances at them out of the corner of his eye. To be entirely fair, it was in fact quite difficult _not_ to look at them, because Aziraphale kept swinging his head this way and that and reaching up to fidget with them.

As they walked, Crowley leaned over to murmur in Aziraphale’s ear: “You’ll look less ridiculous if you pretend they’re not there.”

“I can’t help it,” said Aziraphale, still grinning.

“I can’t believe you’ve never worn earrings before.”

“Oh, I have.”

“You _haven’t_. You miracled up those holes in your ears just now, Angel, don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Aziraphale gave him a conspiratorial look. Crowley scoffed, but didn’t press the matter.

“Where to next?” he said instead, glancing around. They were passing a gentleman’s clothing store, and he gestured to it, slowing them both to a stop. “You needed a bow-tie, yeah?”

The look on Aziraphale’s face now was . . . strange. It was the same look he’d given Crowley when he’d asked almost the same question at brunch earlier, somewhere halfway between grateful and nervous. Crowley had no idea what it meant; all he was doing was coming up with excuses to stay together, like Aziraphale had been doing for the past two days. Ever since Aziraphale’s outburst the night before, Crowley had decided that so long as his angel wanted him to stay, he would. It wasn’t exactly a chore, after all, to spend his newfound freedom with his angel.

“If you don’t want to, we can just go back to my place,” Crowley quickly amended, when Aziraphale didn’t answer. “Or yours. Whatever you like.” He honestly didn’t care where they went, so long as Aziraphale was happy.

Aziraphale glanced anxiously at the shop, then at Crowley, then down the street into the middle distance. He seemed to be having a rather divisive internal debate with himself. Finally, he straightened his overcoat and said, “I . . . _did_ want to look at some new patterns. If you don’t mind waiting.”

Crowley was already holding the shop door open for him. “Take as long as you like, Angel.”

**Tuesday, around 5:00 P.M.**

They were in the shop for almost two hours, but Aziraphale got his new bow-ties. All eight of them. (He’d had trouble deciding between the blue polka-dots and the red, and then he spotted a tartan one in a color he didn’t own yet, and it was all downhill from there.)

Crowley suggested dinner, as it was getting on to be suppertime, and of course Aziraphale agreed. They had Italian (at least, Aziraphale had Italian, and Crowley had a truly concerning number of breadsticks), and then they shared a slice of raspberry cheesecake and a bottle of good dessert wine.

Being the height of summer, it was still light outside when they left the restaurant, so they walked around for a bit. Aziraphale must have gotten used to the earrings, Crowley thought, because he wasn’t fiddling with them so much anymore. He was wearing one of his new bow-ties, a cream-white one with gold trim, and it actually went quite nicely with the golden snakes. At one point on their walk, as they were passing by a flowerbed, Crowley stopped him so he could take a picture with his phone. Aziraphale, a bit confused but flattered, posed in front of the flowers as though Crowley was taking a daguerreotype. Crowley had to explain to him that a smartphone could take ten photos in as many seconds, and Aziraphale could smile if he wanted to.

Crowley would pride himself for many, many years to come on capturing the image of his angel, standing before a bush of red and white roses, eyes bright in the late-summer English sunset, wearing tartan and gold and a beaming smile, with two snakes hanging from his ears.

As darkness began to fall, they found themselves once again in Soho, and Crowley didn’t even have to ask; Aziraphale bustled him through the door of the bookshop, and put on a pot of tea for the both of them, without so much as a “Would you like—?”

Crowley made himself comfortable on the sofa and Aziraphale put a well-worn vinyl copy of _The Music Man_ soundtrack on the record player. As Crowley sipped his tea, for once not wishing it was something stronger, he watched Aziraphale bustle ineffectually about the bookshop, reshelving books that were in their proper place to begin with and dusting corners that were not dusty. He hummed along to the music as he went, moving slightly to the beat as though he were thinking about dancing but was too distracted to commit to it.

Aziraphale paused where he stood when the first slow violin strains of “Till There Was You” came through the crackling speakers. “Oh,” he said fondly, pressing a hand to his chest, “that Shirley Jones. Now _there_ was a divine voice.”

It was a rather nice song, Crowley thought, maybe a little sappy, but then again so had the film been. He’d never seen it before yesterday, but Aziraphale had enjoyed it quite a bit, and Crowley had rather liked the librarian character.

Before he could think too hard about it, Crowley was unfolding himself from the sofa and holding out his hand to Aziraphale. “Care to dance?” He liked to think it came out sounding cool. It did not.

It also did not matter, because Aziraphale blushed three shades of red regardless. He stared at Crowley’s hand as though it held a certain apple, from once upon a time. “I—well, I’m not—it’s been quite a long time—”

“It’s alright if you don’t want to, Angel,” said Crowley softly.

Aziraphale gave him that look again, the one he couldn’t place. “Can _you_ dance?” he said, deflecting.

Crowley shrugged. “Have done. Maybe not well, but that isn’t really the point, yeah?”

Aziraphale smiled at him in a kind of understanding. “Ah, I suppose not,” he said, and as the first refrain began, he reached out and took Crowley’s hand.

Toe to toe, they danced; it was slow and close, awkward and halting, but they danced. _No, I never heard them at all,_ sang Shirley Jones, and Aziraphale leaned his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder. _No, I never saw them at all,_ sang the record player, and Crowley pressed his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s shirt. _There was love all around,_ and Crowley closed his eyes, _But I never heard it singing,_ and Aziraphale smiled a smile no one could see, _No, I never heard it at all,_ but Crowley could feel it against his shoulder, _Till there was you,_ and the strings crescendoed, and for possibly the first time in the history of the world, and certainly for the first time in the new one, a demon and an angel danced together in a bookshop in Soho.

The record switched to the next song, and they broke apart. “You’re good,” said Crowley, meaning _One more dance, Angel, please?_

“Oh, my,” said Aziraphale, smiling demurely. “You’re not so bad yourself, for a demon.” _I suppose just one more . . ._

They danced to Sondheim, and Cole Porter, and Gershwin, and yes, even Rodgers and Hammerstein, with a touch of irony. They danced as the tea grew cold, and the moon rose and the stars came out, all without their knowledge or care. For hours they danced, though it might have been seconds, or millennia, or anywhere in between; neither their feet nor their hearts ever grew tired, if they did not wish them to. If Crowley had the wherewithal (and if it wouldn’t ruin the music), he would have paused time in that bookshop forever. If Aziraphale could find the words, he would have asked Crowley to stay, just stay; there’s nothing else I need from you except for you to be here.

But eventually the needle ran out of grooves, and the music stopped, and the sun rose once again. Time, as it always had and always would, kept on going. Their feet slowed to a halt in the silent, empty morning air that suddenly felt too stifling in the scant few centimeters between them. They stared at one another for a long moment.

Aziraphale was the first to step away. “Ahem,” he said (he didn’t cough; he just said the word). “I should dump the tea. It’ll have gone cold.” And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the kitchenette to busy himself with the dishes.

Crowley set about putting away the records. “Plans for the day?” he asked.

“What is it, Wednesday?” Aziraphale called from the other room. There was a pause, in which both of them were silently surprised that it was already Wednesday, and neither decided to comment on it. “No, I do believe I have the day free. I ought to open the shop, though.”

“Oh, in that case I suppose I’ll g—” Crowley started to say.

“You can stay, if you like,” Aziraphale said at the same time.

There was another pause. Aziraphale poked his head out of the kitchenette. “I’m sorry my dear, what were you saying?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, and couldn’t help but smile. He reclaimed his spot on the sofa, sprawling across it as though it was his birthright (not that he’d ever exactly been _born_ ). “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

**Wednesday, around 10:00 A.M.**

Much to Aziraphale’s disappointment, his customers had noticed he’d been absent recently. He tried not to look too put out when he unlocked the front doors and found a small crowd of eager would-be thieves already lined up outside. With a tight-lipped smile, he waved them inside; the sooner they came in, he reasoned, the sooner they’d be gone. (Though quite a few of them complimented him on his earrings, which he was rather pleased about.)

Crowley mostly kept out of sight, as he always did on the rare occasions he was in the bookshop during opening hours. This was for the best, because Aziraphale was keeping himself busy enough with ensuring none of his customers actually managed to buy anything. It wouldn’t do to get distracted by Crowley’s presence, not after last night.

Oh, dancing with Crowley had been so lovely, like a dream, as the expression went, although Aziraphale was hesitant to compare it to something he’d never experienced before. Well, then: dancing with Crowley was like a fine spread of gourmet dishes; one simply couldn’t get enough, even after one had exhausted oneself. Like a good, long novel, was dancing with Crowley; one hoped it would never end.

But it had, as all good things must do. And now they’d have to _talk_ about it, or at least they ought to, oughtn’t they? Aziraphale was never one for tough discussions, but this really did seem like something they should discuss. They’d never so much as held hands before two nights ago, and now, apparently, they were _dancing_. Aziraphale felt a flash of envy for Crowley; he always seemed so collected about these sorts of things; how smooth he’d looked as he offered Aziraphale his hand! But perhaps it hadn’t meant as much to Crowley as it did to him, Aziraphale thought. Perhaps this was just something Crowley _did_ now, with his close friends. He had had quite a disturbing disco phase in the seventies.

But then again, hadn’t it been Crowley who had offered to go shopping with him yesterday? Hadn’t it been Crowley who kept suggesting things they could do together, reasons to stay by his side?

Oh yes, Aziraphale decided as he gently steered a customer away from a collector’s set of Ishiguro novels, they would need to have a talk about this.

“Angel?”

Speak of the devil, indeed. “Yes, Crowley?” Aziraphale called into the back room. Some of the customers looked up curiously; they hadn’t known that Mr. Fell had a live-in partner.

“I’ve just remembered, I’ve got to get back to my flat to, erm, _take care_ of my plants.”

“Oh?” It came out sounding much too high-pitched for Aziraphale’s liking. He cleared his throat, not wanting to make a fuss in front of the customers. “Well, mind how you go, then.”

Crowley emerged from the back room, sunglasses on for the benefit of the customers (who had begun to take a real interest in the conversation). “I was going to suggest you come with me,” Crowley said.

The customers looked expectantly at Aziraphale. He steadfastly ignored them. “Why do you need me there?” he said.

“Oh. Erm,” said Crowley, as though he hadn’t considered that. The customers were beginning to put down their books. “I don’t _need_ you there. Just thought—well. If you had nothing else on. You’d want to come with,” he said lamely.

Aziraphale gestured around him, at the customers who weren’t even pretending to be browsing anymore. “Crowley, I’ve got a bookshop to look after. I can’t just leave and go off with you for no reason, not while there are customers here.”

The customers glanced around at one another, and one by one, made their way to the exit. The bell above the front entrance chimed several times in quick succession, and then was silent.

“Well, there you go!” said Crowley with a grin, sauntering over to the coat rack to grab his jacket. He snapped his fingers. “Bentley’s waiting outside, whenever you’re ready.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snapped. He sighed, then went on in a much softer tone: “Many thanks for clearing out the place so quickly, but I really don’t see why I should go with you.”

Crowley’s expression was unreadable behind his sunglasses. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“My dear, it isn’t that,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands. “You just—keep inviting me places, and inviting yourself along to places I’m going, for no reason that I can see.”

Oh, but now he could read Crowley’s expression, though he wished he couldn’t, because Crowley was clearly hurt. “Right,” Crowley said after a moment. He sounded strangled. “Right. Well. Sorry then.” Hurriedly, he pulled his jacket on and made for the door.

Oh no, Aziraphale thought. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Words, words! He read them day and night, and yet it was so difficult to say the right ones aloud. “Wait!” he cried, rushing to intercept Crowley at the threshold, blocking the doorway. Crowley pulled up short, leaving mere inches between them. “I don’t mean _stop_ ,” Aziraphale explained, a little out of breath. “I just don’t understand _why_.”

“Why do I want to spend time with you,” Crowley deadpanned.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “You know what I mean.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley’s face softened. “I’m not sure I do, Angel,” he said quietly.

“I—” Aziraphale started, but closed his mouth when he realized he wasn’t sure what he meant, either. He liked spending time with Crowley, and obviously Crowley liked spending time with him, but now it was so _much_ , more than ever before. He didn’t know how to handle any of this, not without pushing Crowley away. Suddenly he felt very tired, as though the night of dancing really had exhausted him.

“Let’s go to my place,” said Crowley decisively, turning away to retrieve Aziraphale’s coat from the rack. “I’ve got—well, there’s bound to be something in the fridge that could pass as lunch. I’ll miracle something up.”

Aziraphale took his coat as it was handed to him, once again unable (and, he discovered, unwilling) to come up with an excuse. Crowley’s hand was warm at his back as he guided him out the door and into the Bentley. When Crowley opened the passenger door for him, Aziraphale reached out and squeezed his hand, just for a moment. _I’m sorry. Thank you._ Crowley squeezed back. _It’s alright._ Aziraphale felt a stab of something that was part relief, part guilt.

On the way to Crowley’s flat, they listened to a cassette of Mendelssohn’s breakout hit “You’re My Best Friend,” and tried not to look each other in the eye.

**Wednesday, around 6:00 P.M.**

There are certain kinds of days that can happen to angels and demons (or at least one particular angel and demon) just as well as humans. They are spent almost entirely indoors, and seem to pass slowly and quickly at the same time. They are often rainy, or at least cloudy and dark, and muffled, as though the world outside the windows is not as real as it usually is. These sorts of days are utterly and completely unproductive, which is all well and good, because there is nothing pressing that needs to be done. They are spent with constant refills of tea, and the background noise of a television with the volume turned too low, and a comfortable sofa, and are best when shared.

The day they spent at Crowley’s flat included almost all of the above. (Crowley’s sofa was, at first, nonexistent, and after Aziraphale requested its existence, was akin to sitting on the planks of a ship deck covered in a two-thousand-thread-count bed sheet.) They started off sitting on opposite sides, leaving enough room for a certain long-dead prophet whose name Aziraphale was hesitant to mention in front of Crowley, but as the afternoon slowly turned over them, and as several trips back to the kitchen for more tea were made, they grew closer and closer, until they sat with their shoulders touching.

Aziraphale, having grown slow and warm over the course of the day, took Crowley’s hand without really thinking about it. In the back of his mind, he knew he ought to talk to Crowley about the business of the last three days (or was it four, now?), but what a shame it would be to bring it up now, while they were so nicely settled and quiet together.

There were a million little fragments of statements in his head, but none held a complete enough thought to be said aloud. He hadn’t the foggiest as to how to finish them. _Today has been— You’ve been— This week— Thank you for— I’m sorry for— Please— Could we— Would you terribly mind if I— After this, might we— Are you— Should I— May I— I want—_

What _did_ he want?

He felt Crowley’s hand, warm in his own, and looked over at his uncovered eyes as they stared out the window at the pouring rain, and Aziraphale realized that he wanted _this_. He wanted to stay with Crowley, and he wanted Crowley to stay with him, forever.

Almost before he knew what he was doing, Aziraphale had extracted his hand from Crowley’s and leapt off the sofa, almost falling over the coffee table as he did.

Crowley looked up at him in alarm. Aziraphale stared down at him, and dimly realized that he suddenly felt very cold.

“Angel? What’s wrong? What happened?” Crowley stood up himself, as though preparing for a fight. “Are _they_ back? Did you sense something?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said. He cleared his throat. “No,” he said again, “There’s nothing wrong. I—” His hands were clenched behind his back, but he couldn’t recall putting them there. “I—think it’s high time I get back to the bookshop,” he said, his voice higher than usual.

Crowley looked at him suspiciously, but said, “Alright, suppose it is getting late. I’ll give you a lift.” He started towards the door.

“No!” said Aziraphale, reaching out to stop him. Crowley turned back, face crumpled in confusion. “I—I’ll get myself back, just fine. You stay here. Far too dangerous to drive in these conditions.” 

“Aziraphale—”

“It’ll be dark, and you drive too fast anyway—”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice was very soft. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale did not answer his question. He did not know how to answer his question. _Something_ was wrong, he knew, because his fingers felt cold and his stomach had twisted itself all in knots and his heart hurt and he felt like running away and he could not stop wringing his hands. But he did not know what was wrong.

Instead, he said, “I will get myself home. We’ve been spending too much time together as it is, you must be sick of me by now. Four _days_ , Crowley, it’s too _much_.” Suddenly Aziraphale couldn’t stop talking. “You’ve been wonderful, but this can’t go on. We can’t spend every waking moment of the day together just because we made it through the Apocalypse. Things were fine as they were before, weren’t they? I don’t—” Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to _ruin_ everything, Crowley. I—” His chest ached, and he put a hand up to it instinctively. “I really ought to go now.”

With that, Aziraphale turned on his heel and marched out of the flat, feeling suspiciously like he’d managed to ruin everything anyway. He couldn’t bear to look behind him as the door closed to see if Crowley was following him. Without a backward glance, he hurried down the dark hallway towards the lift.

He would go back to the bookshop, he decided, and make a nice pot of cocoa, and sit in his favorite armchair, and read Whitman until dawn, and he would see Crowley sometime next week at the earliest, and they’d never speak of all this dreadful business again, and it would be fine. Perfectly fine. Perfectly—perfectly—

Perfectly _awful._

Aziraphale’s footsteps stuttered to a halt halfway to the lift. Without Crowley around, to drink and talk and laugh with, to read his favorite passages to, to watch horrible television programs with, to lie on the sofa with, without Crowley there to share everything with, what was the point in doing any of it at all? The black, shiny metal doors of the lift ahead looked so cold and uninviting, so much like Hell. So much like _Heaven_.

Crowley’s flat, at least, had plants and sculptures and character and, most of all, Crowley, the only being who had ever truly loved Aziraphale without condition, without expectation. “Oh,” Aziraphale said, his voice coming out sounding choked and dreadful, and he realized that there were tears in his eyes. “Oh,” he said again, voice finally breaking. He turned away from the lift and looked back. _“Crowley.”_

It is difficult to describe love in absolute terms. Love is a relatively slippery concept and philosophers have been trying for literal centuries to pin it down, without much luck. Sure, abstractly you could say “My love is a turtledove, flying towards the sun of your regard,” but that doesn’t really mean anything. You can even say “My love for you is wider than an ocean and deeper than a canyon,” but love doesn’t have a size or shape, and it certainly doesn’t have mass or volume. However, if one were to try to take a stab at describing the love that went into Aziraphale’s single utterance of _“Crowley”_ in that dimly-lit apartment building hallway, the most objective, absolute way to describe it might be something like a binary star system which, to the naked eye, looks to be only one star, but in reality, is made up of a pair, which have been continuously orbiting one another for a very, very long time.

Crowley must have been waiting for him, because as soon as Aziraphale began to frantically knock on the great black monolith that was the door to Crowley’s flat, it swung open. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stumble through the doorway a bit, but Crowley was already meeting him halfway, holding his arms to steady him.

As Azirpahale opened his mouth to speak, to explain, to apologize, he’d no idea what he ought to do first, Crowley said: “I’m not sick of you.”

Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut. After a moment, he said, “What?”

“Earlier, you said I must be sick of you by now, ’cause it’s been four days. Couldn’t get a word in at the time, but I wanted to tell you, I’m not. Sick of you, that is.”

“O-h,” said Aziraphale slowly. He lifted his arms to hold onto Crowley’s in turn.

Crowley’s big yellow eyes blinked at him. “You’re my best friend. I like spending time with you. I don’t think it’s possible for me to get sick of you.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. The coldness in his fingers was seeping away, disappearing into the fabric of Crowley’s jacket.

“If four days was too much for you, that’s alright, I won’t keep you. But if you’re worried that it’s too much for _me_ —” Crowley shook his head. “You’re never too much for me, Angel.” Then he made a face, as though embarrassed to have said something so sentimental. “I mean, I’ve known you for six thousand bloody years. Four more days is peanuts.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale again. The warmth spread to his chest, and the twisted feeling in his stomach was going away. “I see.”

“And you haven’t ruined anything. I mean, if ‘anything’ means ‘us,’ you haven’t ruined anything,” said Crowley.

“I _see_ ,” said Aziraphale. He held onto Crowley a little tighter; they were standing quite close now. He let out a little relieved sort of laugh. “I’m not sick of you either. These have been the nicest four days of my existence, I rather think.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, his forehead almost touching Aziraphale’s. “Mine too.”

“I got scared, I think. I realized how much I enjoyed having you around all the time like this, and it scared me. I’ve been a fool.”

“You said it, not me—”

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s arms and hugged him around the middle, pulling the two of them together, and stared up into his eyes. Crowley let out a little squeak, but didn’t move away. “I came back because I wanted to apologize,” said Aziraphale, though it was more of a murmur this close to Crowley’s face, “for being such a fool. I thought that I loved you”—and here Crowley squeaked again, but for a very different reason—“more than you loved me. And, well, I rather thought you _would_ get sick of me, after a while. But in the hallway I realized the former wasn’t true. And now I know the latter isn’t true, either.

“But I’m afraid I have something else I must ask you, my dear.” Aziraphale took a steadying breath, heartened by the fact that the cold had left his body, replaced by the warmth of Crowley against him. He felt calm in a way he couldn’t remember feeling in—well, forever. He gave Crowley a smile, and Crowley returned it without a thought. “Will you stay with me?” the angel asked the demon.

“ ’Course,” said Crowley, and that, simply, was that.

Until a moment later, when Crowley came up for air from Aziraphale’s crushing embrace, and said, “You do mean in the metaphorical sense, right? Because this _is_ my flat. And you’re welcome here, of course, anytime, but if you meant the bookshop, that’s also good—”

Aziraphale kissed him. It lasted only for a second and surprised both of them, and they quickly jolted away from one another.

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, quite embarrassed at his own lack of decorum. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“No no no, you’re fine,” said Crowley quickly, who had very much enjoyed it while it had lasted. “I was only saying—”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, nodding repeatedly, feathers still rather ruffled, “yes, in the metaphorical sense, yes.”

“Oh, good,” said Crowley, “ ’cause that’s what I meant, too.”

Crowley had never dipped someone into a kiss before, and Aziraphale had never _been_ dipped into a kiss before, but between the two of them, they somehow managed to make it work. Some light metaphysical manipulation of space-time might have been involved, but that was the price one paid for a climactic moment.

**Thursday, around 11:00 A.M.**

“Hang on,” said Crowley, apropos of nothing, setting down his mimosa.

Aziraphale looked up from his eggs Benedict in surprise. The other patrons of the café did not, because they were Londoners who were rather used to hearing public outbursts over brunch.

Crowley lowered his voice nonetheless. “You said you loved me,” he said to Aziraphale.

“Oh?” Aziraphale laid down his knife and fork neatly and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “When did I say that?”

“Yesterday, when you were apologizing and getting all weepy.”

“As I recall, we were both rather weepy,” Aziraphale said wryly.

“ _Either_ way, Angel, you said it. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Of course I remember, dear boy, what about it, then?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly dislodged his sunglasses. “Hah! So you admit it, then.”

“Admit _what_? Crowley, really, if you’ve a point please make it quickly, the hollandaise sauce will get cold—”

“You admit that you love me!” Crowley said. He gestured victoriously at Aziraphale with his unused fork. “You admit it, in front of the toast of London and all the overdressed waiters in this uptight café—” A passing member of the waitstaff caught this last, and gave Crowley a sour look. Crowley did not notice. “And most importantly, you admit it to _me_.”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him. “Well— _yes_ ,” he said simply. He was at a loss to say anything else. He smiled into his napkin. “Yes, Crowley, I admit it.”

“Happily!” Crowley, well, crowed. Well-trained, the toast of London surrounding them still did not look up.

Aziraphale laughed, and reached over to hold Crowley’s hand across the table. Then, taken by an even better idea, he pulled it up to his lips and kissed Crowley’s knuckles. _“Rather,”_ he said.

Satisfied and a bit ruddy, Crowley sat back for a moment or two. He went to take a drink and, into his mimosa glass, he mumbled, “Love you too, you know.”

Aziraphale smiled down at the last bit of ham on his plate as he cut into it. “I know, my dear.”

Crowley made a noise that honestly could have meant anything, but probably meant _Well, good then. You ought to know._ As Aziraphale polished off his meal (and his plate), Crowley said, with his usual impeccable timing, “Anything else on for the day?”

“. . . No,” said Aziraphale ponderously. “No, nothing else planned, I believe.”

“Fancy a walk round the duck pond, then?”

The patrons of the café, Londoners or not, would be forgiven for looking up at that moment; seeing an angel smile so contentedly is a rare sight for any human. Still, people are people, and Londoners, bless them, are Londoners, and the only being who saw Aziraphale’s smile was Crowley. That was all well and good, though; it was really only meant for him.

“My dear boy, that sounds simply _divine_.”

**Author's Note:**

> The little mention of La Scala theater is a reference to [this Tumblr post](https://pidgydraws.tumblr.com/post/185782113741/pidgydraws-crowley-and-aziraphale-outside-the).
> 
> [This is the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tkgEXcbyhC8) Crowley and Aziraphale were dancing to.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
